


Advice, Unheeded

by squanderbird



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drug Addiction, Gen, friendship isn't all flowers and rainbows, references to violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-24
Updated: 2012-07-24
Packaged: 2017-11-10 15:42:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/467942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squanderbird/pseuds/squanderbird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every time, there's a text, sent channelling furious through network providers with the quickfire snap of fibrous synapses. An address, initials. <i>Hurry.</i></p>
<p> In which Sherlock Holmes is young and foolish, and Lestrade doesn’t know why he bothers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Advice, Unheeded

**Author's Note:**

  * For [teaforone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/teaforone/gifts).



"Don't pity me," Sherlock snaps, eyes blazing electrocution, syringe still poised in the elegant diorama of his fingers, lids fluttering with the aftermath, "Don't you dare pity me." 

He lolls against the alleyway walls, how pedestrian, how cliche, a rib-thin body sprawled across dead-end gravel. Lestrade watches him silently, feet shuffling in the dirt, refusing to speak. That's a damning judgement in itself. Sherlock knows this, Lestrade realises in the flare of his mirroring pupils, cat-like, unnervingly dreamy. 

Sherlock Holmes is twenty, beautiful with youth and ambition; he could be anything, a great man, a martyr. Sherlock Holmes can tell you a life story from your shoelaces, and every fantastical dissection is truetrue _true._

Sherlock Holmes is an abnormal junkie genius, subsuming his diamond-cut brain in _this_ \--

"I don't," Lestrade finally manages, "I can't," and leaves him to it. 

*

Every time, there's a text, sent channelling furious through network providers with the quickfire snap of fibrous synapses. An address, initials. _Hurry._

There's the street gang infiltration that leaves Sherlock with both legs broken, alleyway retribution. Dog-eat-dog world, you know how this thing goes; Sherlock doesn't make a sound until Lestrade nudges his torso upright, shifting dangling limbs -- and then he swears crass as a sailor, subsiding to grimly bite down on his own arm. 

("I told them," he mutters later, palely irritable against wrinkled hospital sheets, "To leave the fingers. I'm surprised they listened to me, really," tucking the violin precociously under his chin.) 

There's the sudden bout of bird flu, self-adminstered by injecting the strain during the early stages of the endemic, would you believe. Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective and now one of the first nameless cases reported on BBC News 24, and damn it if the bastard isn't a little bit proud of himself for that, the being first. 

("For God's sake, why?" Lestrade queries, exasperated.  
"The sooner I got it, the quicker I would develop an immunity to it and save myself from getting it unexpectedly, thus hampering my work. Currently, it's at a time convinient to my leisure, as nothing's been killed in weeks. Logic, my dear Lestrade, or do they not teach that at the Yard these days? Now, give me those cold cases you're clutching, stop gaping and get out.")

There's the infamous time Sherlock licks the murder weapon to ascertain the age of the metal or something like that; what he does do is cut his tongue and give himself a well-deserved bout of tetanus.

("At least, this time you can't talk, you arrogant git."  
However, it appears Sherlock can be visually creative with miming insults. Lestrade is more than a little impressed. And worried, but that's usual. The two tend to go together when Holmes is involved.) 

There’s the time Sherlock gets laid up with fractured ribs and a healing lung, so he passes the time squawking his frustration amongst old bullet casings. By this point, John Watson’s here; quiet, implacable, collected and frustrated and amused, handling gauzes and medication with steady, steady hands. He grins tiredly at Lestrade, leaning against the kitchen counter with a mug of black coffee clutched to his chest.

“He’s kind of a brat, isn’t he?”

“Oh,” says Lestrade, “You have no idea.” 

In his sleepier, more exhausted moments, Sherlock sits softly scowling through Disney films John found in a charity shop because he couldn’t believe Sherlock hadn’t ever heard of them, voice hoarse sore complaining about the unlikelihood of the plotlines.

“I mean, it’d be obvious she was female in the closeness of army barracks, wouldn’t it, John?”

“Shut up,” John threatens, “Else we will make you sing along. There are versions with that, you know.”

For a case, always for a case.

*

"Is that for a case, too?" Lestrade tries not to snap, pointing to a plastic encasing, the shiver of clear chemical within.  
He is faced with an unruffled, near-opaque gaze. 

"No," Sherlock replies coolly, "This is for me," and the needletip sinks in with a soft, audible _snick._

* 

This is the thing they don’t tell you about addicts in literature class; the fictional attributes of that angst-wrecked hero the teenage females are obsessing over always miss a vital flaw amongst the others. Addicts can be cruel. They can be deceitful, and desperate, and they can lie-slash-steal-slash-con-slash-kill to get their hands on what they need, and they can become very, very good at it as a consequence.

When your addict is a barely-adult with doctorates in chemistry and criminology already, you’re doomed; because if they want to lie to you, you’ll never know, if they want to steal from you, they’ll catch you unawares, if they want to take from you, they’ll do so cleverly and without hesitation.

And if they want to hide from you? You haven’t a bloody chance in hell of finding them. 

*

"It's chemicals," he says, shrugging, "All just chemicals. Makes the world stop turning." 

*

Sherlock goes on a three-day resurrectory high binge. Lestrade, whilst searching, quietly informs St. Bart's morgue of measurements and description, asks to be alerted if anything – anyone – matching is brought in.

They find him in Highgate Cemetery, eyes like moons, giggling at the stars as though they might speak. He’s so calm, peaceable even, that Lestrade almost, almost regrets startling him from his stupor. 

His CID identification is in Sherlock’s pocket. 

“You never even noticed,” he crows.

“No,” replies Lestrade heavily, “I never do.” 

*

They’re at a crime scene when it happens; they’re always at a crime scene these days, it seems, since they made a sort of bargain once. Sherlock is in full concerto recital of his own genius, extravagant gestures and declamations of humanity’s stupidity at large – him being the exception, of course, because he isn’t really human, doesn’t really consider himself human, and if Lestrade hadn’t seen him torn up, shaking hands, spaced out, he’d buy into the infallible façade – 

There’s something strange with Sherlock today. He’s noticeably edgier, not so much rapier cold as a spooked kitten picked up too many times, oversensitive to white noise and physical contact. His eyes are unhealthily bright, watery verdigris sparking strange in the cloudy morning half-light, cheekbones raised with a stripe of fever flush that bridges over the arch of his nose. The corners of his vowels are vaguely garbled, diction not so pin-sharp. Nobody else seems to have noticed, not yet, but give them time. 

Lestrade decides they’d better have the conversation before things get any further out of hand. He reaches for the sleeve of that ridiculous swishy coat and draws Sherlock to a side, cutting him off halfway through what is rapidly becoming a Shakespearean soliloquy on his own brilliance. 

“Sherlock,” he asks, bluntly because he’s past niceties with the man, “Are you high?”

There’s a barely-perceptible pause, as though Sherlock’s scanning himself. Then he glares down with his best, most cutting hauteur, yanking his coat from where it twists between Lestrade’s anxious fingers.

“Of course not,” he sneers, “I made a deal in good faith. I do not renege unless necessary. In fact, I feel fine.”

It’s a fabulous stroke of dramatic irony, truly it is - because not two minutes later, Sherlock is sprawled across the gravel, unconscious, eyes rolling back into his head. 

“Oh, bloody hell,” Sally announces loudly, “Freak’s only gone and fainted, hasn’t he?”

*

When Sherlock comes to, he’s in Baker Street, slung against the sofa by two rookie blues who’d asked for the honour, Lestrade decided, by the way they’d cracked up laughing. They’d giggled bit less after carrying a stupidly tall consulting detective up a flight of steep, narrow stairs, to be sure. They’re gone now, dismissed back to their duties. Lestrade is waiting, in a routine fashioned of rinse-and-repeat, hovering by the kettle and searching for a packet of coffee. It's sealed firmly closed next to a tray of whole human molars near destroyed in hydrochloric acid.

Brief bouts of unconsciouness no longer bother Sherlock to the point of being confused. He merely blinks once, twice and then goes, ‘Virus. Must’ve caught it from the abbatoir somehow. Unfortunate. Very distracting.”

“I’m not going to ask,” Lestrade informs him, “Because actually I really, really do not want to know.”

“That’s very like John. How tiresome.” Sherlock glances about, deduces how he must have arrived here, and looks vaguely like he’s considering embarrassment. Lestrade’s interested to see that emotion might ever occur to him. 

“John!” he startles, recalling, “Should I text –“

“No need. I was halfway through a text, and it sent incomplete. The good doctor will have realised something’s afoot as it is. He’ll be back shortly.” Sherlock stretches, leonine and languid, then decides to try and get up. His knees buckle even as he stands.

“Whoa, mate. Steady.” As Lestrade rushes forward to help him, Sherlock shrugs away irritably, but guides himself carefully back down.

“Huh. Degenerated faster than I suspected.” There’s a bit of surprise in his voice. Lestrade disguises a smile. So, even Sherlock overestimates his prowess. In fact, hunched over, suit rumpled and a cup of tea pressed into his hands, he looks almost lost, fever heightening the blotchy patches on his skin.

When Lestrade leans forward to touch his forehead, Sherlock flinches away suspiciously, as though this hasn’t happened so, so many times. 

“I’m just checking your temperature, Sherlock.”

“I have John for that.”

“Yes, well,” Lestrade moves away, oddly wounded, “It’s not like I haven’t done this before.”

“I’m aware you have. I deleted most of it, though.” 

“Right, thanks. Glad I bothered.”

“I didn’t delete everything. I didn’t delete the seven months. There are some things it does me good to not forget, officer. I’d appreciate it if you stopped acting so used, because that’s what I do, Lestrade. That’s what people do.”

“I didn’t realise you associated yourself with the common man.”

“I don’t. I didn’t. Things have…changed, somewhat.”

“I see,” and Lestrade thinks he does.

“Thank you,” Sherlock says quietly, barely audible, “Don’t expect me to repeat myself, but. Thank you.” 

*

The clinic is quiet and private, clean tiles and neat wallpaper, and behind a locked door, Sherlock Holmes is falling apart.

“Lestrade,” he mutters, trying to hold onto some pride and failing. His eyes are blatant starving, fingernail marks on his arms. He twitches imperceptibly, and he’s shaking, constantly, tiny little spasms that shiver off his body in shockwaves, cuticles chewed raw and bruises spattered with abandon, underscoring his eyes. He looks half-dead, clawing for resurrection, and Lestrade tries not to show his horror, but he does all the same, knows this because of the blank-eyed fury in Sherlock’s face.

“I see you didn’t bring flowers.”

“No,” Lestrade says, “I brought you these.”

“What are these?” Sherlock asks, even though he knows, imperiously holding out his hand. His fingers are trembling with the need to snatch them from Lestrades’ grasp, suppressed admirably. They’re case folders, solid manila envelopes of long-gone murders left to suffocate in dusty bindings and filing cabinets. 

“Get clean,” Lestrade bargains, “Don’t do it for me, do it for yourself. Get clean, and I’ll let you go everywhere you need to. The Yard can be your playground.”

Sherlock Holmes is twenty five, an addict and a man, the brightest of the angels serving his time. Stereotypical anti-hero, angry, young, twisted by his own potential, but he could be a great man, and maybe, maybe –

“Stop taking your wife to your marriage counsellor,” Sherlock orders, flicking through the pages with careful, stroking movements, the kind most reserve for lovers, “She’s sleeping with him. Handcuffs are probably involved.” 

Lestrade winces. 

Well, maybe the goodness will have to wait.


End file.
